Why Birds Fly South
by simplyleah
Summary: Bella is the genetically modified winged daughter of the Swans, and she can't tell anyone about it, even though her parents are dead. Falling in love is hard enough-imagine it with the govt breathing down your neck! BellaxEdward BellaxJasper
1. Chapter 1

**YAY! New story. You know you're excited. I know, I know. I should probably be updating my other fics, not starting a new one. Sorry I suck. I just couldn't help myself.**

**As promised, here's the longer summary:**

Isabella Swan has wings. No, she's not a faerie. Her parents, Charlie and Renee, were scientists for a genetic engineering lab that was, unbeknownst to the government (and illegally) experimenting with genetic interbreeding between species. Bella was, for their lab, the first success-the first human being to be born with wings, and the genes of birds. When her parents died, her wings weren't complete-sure, they were there, like they'd been for her whole life, but they're not functional. She can't fly. Her parents were working on fixing that when they died, and nobody at the lab can figure out what they were doing. So now, Bella is stuck with wings that don't work, in love with her best friend, and attending a boarding school in Connecticut.

How could life get any better?

Sounds pretty awesome, doesn't it? No, it's not a rip off of Maximum Ride; you'll know that, once you start reading. Like I said in the summary, this story is BellaXEdward and BellaXJasper, so there will be a lot of romantic tension (YAY!) between the two. Jasper won't come in for some time, so don't worry. You'll get tons of Edward time. And I haven't decided who Bella will end up with, so don't yell at me. I'll probably put up a poll when the time comes that I need to decide.

**And, unlike my other stories, I actually do have a lot of this already written, so I should be updating at a steady pace for a while.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>My dad used to have this book. Something about birds, and why they fly south for the winter. He was a photographer—when he had the time to be, at least—and his specialty was birds; birds making pictures in the sky. Whenever he would see a flock of birds, he'd take tons of pictures, from every angle, until they were too far away to show up on the camera.<p>

My mom called that his fault—teasingly, of course—the one she'd have to deal with for the rest of her life. But, she would tell me, my father had many other faults, mostly good ones, and not bad in the slightest. She said that, one day, my husband would, too. She told me I'd love him for it.

But whenever I think of his faults now, the only one that comes to mind is the one that I didn't find out about until the day he died. I didn't like to think about that. I didn't like to think about his heart being broken.

Of course, I have my own problems. I always have. My best—and practically only—friend was a guy, if that counts as one. I think the fact that I've been in love with him for just as long should count as another. Another could, you know be the fact that, when I was thirteen, I got a full-ride academic scholarship to a boarding school in Connecticut.

And, wait, I think we have a winner: _I have wings!_

Then again, I think most of those could just be considered as, oh, I don't know . . . symptoms of some sort of mental illness? Except maybe that last one. Unless, of course, I've been hallucinating for my entire life and I don't really even have wings.

But, anyway, the fact that my parents died before they'd finished the experiment, that sort of makes it past all of those things, even the wings . . . More on that later.

Oh, and, by the way, if you've began to wonder why, exactly, I am writing this, it is because my therapist thinks that, since I am unwilling to actually tell him anything of slightest importance that is going on in my life, or really have any sort of meaningful conversation with my aunt and uncle, and my brother and I don't really speak very much, I need _some _way to vent all of my thoughts . . . or something like that.

Really, though. If I actually _told _him any of this, I'd be committed by the end of the week. To a mental asylum. Off the coast of New York. Where they do things to me that actually _make _me insane. Or something like that. Like in that movie, with Leonardo DiCaprio. Or I'd be shipped off to some government agency, where they'd run tests on me until the day I die.

So, this is how it happened (as well as I can remember, at least, and as much as my parents told me before they died):

Before my mom became pregnant with me, when I wasn't even a thought in her or my dad's mind, they'd begun experimenting with genetic interbreeding at their lab—or, really, mixing the genes of other animal species' with that of humans. They even tried it a few times; test-tube babies, with the help of sperm and eggs from donors taken from nearby banks. But it never worked. It seemed that the artificial wombs they created for these "angel children" (as my father called them) weren't the same as . . . well, an actual womb.

And that's how I was created.

I know, it probably doesn't sound romantic at all—it probably even seems cruel. But I also know that my parents had wanted another kid shortly after Emmett was born (or at least that's what my uncle tells me), and just didn't really have the time to, with the progress the team was making. But now they had a reason.

Mom's pregnancy was a course of many tests, a lot of research, and tons of risks. Major, scientifically-unheard of risks that would blow your mind. They didn't know how much bird I needed in me—didn't know how much of my genetic composition they should mess with. That's not to say they didn't know what they were doing . . . it's just to say that nobody had reached that point in science yet, and they had to go into this doing what they'd done with all of the test tube babies—all of the test tube babies that never made it past six weeks in the "womb". And I was my parent's daughter; they didn't want to take any serious risks. They would take extraordinary measures just to make sure I survived—Dr. Kethner, one of the scientists on the team, told me how, at one point, in the third trimester of my mother's pregnancy, they had a few scares, and my father threatened to perform surgery _while I was in my mother's stomach_ to remove my wings.

"But thank goodness," Dr. Kethner told me once, "they didn't need to try."

And that's because, after I was born, they discovered that my wings were actually connected to my spine; if they'd tried to remove my wings, I'd have been born paralyzed. From the neck down.

When I was born, Emmett was just barely three, which meant that my parents didn't have to worry about making excuses for my endless surgeries and procedures that continued without fail until I was four. I had a lot of problems; one of the tests had left me with a faulty lung, something the team managed to pass off as severe asthma; the fact that I needed to wear jackets all the time was because of my "thermoregulation", not because I needed to hide my wings, and protect them with the extra padding (which was, of course, the real reason); I could never take PE, because my bones are hollow, like bird bones, and break easily, but they told the school I have bone atrophy (which I don't) . . . the list was endless.

Anyway, I met Edward in the second grade. I was sitting by myself at lunch one day (most people thought I was weird. And that's saying a lot, since none of them knew about my wings) and he came and sat by me. He just sat there, didn't say anything, and started eating his lunch. This became a routine; when lunch started, he'd come and find me, and we'd sit down. Our lunches were silent, but to me, it didn't make a difference. _He _sat down next to _me. _Even if we didn't talk, he was still always there. We'd been friends ever since.

My parents died last year. It was a car accident, and my mother died on impact. My dad, though, he didn't die right away. He actually was still alive, just barely, when someone found the car and called 9-1-1. He died then, though. He died while they were waiting for the ambulance. Later, when they did the autopsy, we found out that he'd had a silent heart problem, meaning that it was one of those that you didn't find out about until it was too late. I overheard my uncle, Michael (my dad's brother), talking to Emmett about how, with his heart problems, he would've had barely a year left.

I think that even though Emmett didn't say anything, we both would've taken that year in a heartbeat.

And that's how I got where I am, right now, with wings that don't work, in a house that doesn't really feel like home anymore, with Uncle Michael and Aunt Jenna down in the kitchen, my cat sitting on my feet . . . and Emmett just down the hall.

Trust me, it wasn't my idea, having him come home. I mean, the fact that he just walked into my room sometime around two in the morning may be creeping close to third on my ever-expanding list of serious issues I can't seem to deal with.

But whatever. It's not like anyone cares about my deteriorating mental health, anyway.

X-X-X

He just came into my room, and woke me up.

I stopped myself from shooting up in bed and squinted in my dark room. Even without my glasses on, or my contacts in, I could make out the distinct form of my brother standing next to my bed.

"It's two o'clock in the morning," I told him, in a surprisingly strong voice for having just woken up.

Emmett rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Aunt Jenna called me."

"Emmett. It's _two o'clock _in the morning."

I clumsily shoved my glasses on, and switched on the lamp next to my bed.

"You look exhausted," he said, in that infuriatingly matter-of-fact way of his,

I was honestly _this far _from shoving a sock down his throat. Why couldn't I have a sweet, adorable, _little _brother, who would never show up when he was supposed to be hundreds of miles away and wake me up _at two o'clock in the morning?_ And, as if my wings weren't cramped enough in that stupid sweatshirt, but the fact that, being the idiot I am, I didn't think that someone would be coming upstairs, I hadn't actually secured them _inside _my sweatshirt, so . . . stuck sweating under ten thousand sheets?

Yeah, sure. Totally on it. No problem.

So I responded, in my charming manner: "You know, that might be because it's _two o'clock in the morning._"

Emmett looked at me with those dark brown eyes, the ones that we'd both inherited from my father, the ones that my uncle had too, before switching off the light and walking over to the door, which he opened. With the dim light from the hall behind him, I could see him shove his hands into his pockets. "Go back to sleep," he said. "If you need anything, just come and get me."

See what I mean?

The next time I heard footsteps in the hallway, it wasn't Emmett, but my uncle, clad in slippers and a robe, and it was much later in the morning. I'd been awake since six. He slipped into my room, and sat down on the corner of my desk, expression grim.

"Why is Emmett here?" I asked.

Uncle Michael sighed. "Your aunt called him."

"_Why?" _I said again.

He shrugged, and rubbed his eyes. There were deep circles under them, like he hadn't slept well in a really long time. "She probably just thought you'd want to see him. I don't know what to tell you, Bella." I gave him a look. "Your aunt means well. She really does."

I rolled over in bed, so that I was facing the shut window. I felt claustrophobic. Emmett used to tease me when I was little, calling me a spaz, because I could never sit still. But whenever I mentioned it to my parents, they told me it was because of the bird genes I had. Birds were flighty. Hated to be contained. Liked wide, open spaces. And I did too.

I looked back over at my uncle. He made move to leave. "Come down when you're ready. I made coffee."

My room is the attic of the house, which, you know, would be great if I could actually fly. But I can't. So, you know. That sort of kills it. The narrow stairs that branch down from the attic lead into the living room, and the living room leads into the dining room, and the dining room leads into kitchen, which leads to the foyer, which leads to the front door, which Mom always used to call the "foyer". Uncle Michael and Aunt Jenna's room, and Emmett's, were on the second floor. Our house wasn't big, exactly; it wasn't small, either, but it was tall and narrow.

When I reached the kitchen, my uncle was sitting at the counter, newspaper in hand, drinking his coffee. I poured some for myself, and barely restrained from dumping half of the sugar jar into it, and the entire carton of milk. It tasted better black, anyway, but, what can I say? Old habits die hard. Emmett walked into the room moments later, looking totally exhausted, his hair sticking up in odd tufts. I assumed that mine looked no different, but, in that moment—in any moment—I really didn't care.

Aunt Jenna walked into the kitchen then, dressed and ready with her blonde hair pulled up into a tight bun. Jenna was a surgeon at the hospital nearby. She went and poured herself a coffee too, hers with milk, and then turned to me. "Your appointment with Dr. Allan is at twelve, which means being there by eleven forty five, Bella." She shot me a look here, reminding me of our last exciting trip to Dr. Allan's. "Your uncle will take you, right, Michael?"

My uncle nodded. "Of course, honey."

"Good," she said, sipping at her coffee. She planted a kiss on my forehead, and ruffled Emmett's already-messy hair. "I'll be back around five!" And with that, she was out the door, making her way to the car.

The thing is, I really do think Emmett feels bad about telling Aunt Jenna and Uncle Michael. I really do.

See, after we finished our coffee, and Uncle Michael headed to take a shower and get dressed, Emmett stepped into the room and sat down in my swivel chair again, looking exhausted and depressed. He didn't say anything, just sat there, while I wrote down what had happened. And, the weird thing is, it didn't feel weird at all, him sitting there, and me writing in my journal. It felt _normal,_ which was a relief after how lousy—and _un_normal—I've been feeling lately.

Anyway, Emmett stayed in my room all morning. And I honestly don't think he said anything the entire time. Emmett is, according to Aunt Jenna, a "man of few words." Ha.

Well. At least I got to have chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. I mean, I never have chocolate chip pancakes. I swear, it was epic. But, sadly, after breakfast, I am doomed to go meet with Dr. Allan. For a two hour long session. During summer vacation.

I mean, I might not be normal, I might not even be completely _human,_ but I'm not mentally impaired. I can still like summer, even if I look retarded with my stupid sweatshirts.

Talk about depressing.

After we finished breakfast, I headed upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. I hurried to push my door open, and locked it quickly behind me. Taking off my big Brentwood Academy sweatshirt was a relief—my wings were so sore.

Spreading them out, I examined the disheveled gray and black feathers, moving them slightly. Testing them.

The doorknob twisted, then, and I let out a big breath—Thank god I locked the door this time, I thought.

"Hey, Bella?" Emmett's voice called. "Uncle Michael said I could take you to Dr. Allan's. We're going to have to leave in thirty minutes."

"Okay!" I called back, already running over to the closet to find a semi-attractive sweatshirt.

I remember when we'd first started, when I was ten, and I had to wear these huge sweatshirts, because my wings were so much bigger than me, even when they were pressed tight against my back, and Dad had tied them down (as a precautionary measure, of course. Mom had gotten one of the team members to fill out paperwork, saying how I couldn't participate in PE, and explaining why I would always be wearing sweatshirts and winter clothes.

Because no sane person wears winter clothes all year round in Arizona.

Nope.

Just me.

After a few minutes, I decided on my Lifeguard sweatshirt, which seemed more appropriate than one of my less summer-y ones. Twenty minutes later, my brother and I ran from the house as fast as we could. I think he wanted out just as bad as I did.

"So how did Aunt Jenna get you to come down?" I asked him, just itching to piss someone off. "I mean, what is she giving you?"

Good for me—Emmett looked angry. "You know," he said, "I might have come down because I thought you'd want someone on your side." You'll never really be on my side, I thought, looking out at the bright sun, and trying to ignore how hot I felt. Sweat was dripping down my back, in the small rectangle of skin in between my wings. You don't even know me.

His grip visibly tightened on the steering wheel. The two of us were both quiet for a second, the air uncomfortably tense. Then Emmett let out a big breath, shattering the tense feeling, but letting an even worse one fall in between us. I think I actually felt guilty, in that moment, about how much our parents had lied to him—about the "tutoring" program I was in every day after school ("But I thought she was in that advanced program?"), and about why I always had to wear jackets, and about why I couldn't go on roller coasters (I don't know how they got me out of that one—all of us knew I loved them—but they hurt my wings too much)—and how much I still was.

When we finally pulled up at Dr. Allan's building in the Hummer, I was practically squirming in my seat. Someone needed to say something. "Hey, Bella?" Emmett started uneasily. "How 'bout I pick you up a bit early, yeah? Our little secret?"

I looked at my brother a moment, before sending a small smile. "Yeah. Thanks, Emmett. And . . . I'm sorry."

He studied my expression. "It's okay. I'll see you in an hour and a half?"

"Yeah. Okay." I pulled the door open and hopped out, feeling Emmett's gaze on my back the entire time. I paused halfway up the path, to wave goodbye, and, surprisingly enough, Emmett waved back.

Well, I thought. Here we go.

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><p><strong>Okay. So, I know nothing super interesting happened in this chapter, but bear with me. I need to do some set-up and developing. <strong>

**Edward will be in the next chapter! . . . which should be up by midnight tonight! (: For Jacob lovers: Jacob _might _be in here eventually, but I think that having two boys fighting over our poor Bella is already too much for her to handle. We'll see, though.**

**Thoughts, likes, dislikes, what you want to happen, what you think will happen? Review!**

**PS: DON'T YOU LOVE EMMETT? Best big brother ever.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, so it's not midnight. It's 2:30 (almost) in the afternoon. But whatever. I wanted to update. No reviews yet, but it's been five hours, so that's okay. First person to comment gets sneak peak of the meeting between Bella and Jasper (which won't be happening for at least five chapters or so, so that's pretty exciting!). You'd better hope you're the first reviewer though! (First reviewer for the FIRST chapter and first reviewer for this chapter both get the sneak preview.)**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

And, just like that, I gathered the courage to pull open the door to Dr. Paul Allan's building. The girl at the front desk, Laura, smiled at me over the currently upset client's shoulder. I turned down the hall, and stopped in front of Dr. Allan's office. The blinds were pulled shut over the glass windows, so I knocked, one–two–three times. A muffled voice seeped through the wide glass door. "Come in!"

I didn't hesitate to fling open the door, and throw myself onto the hideously colored—and patterned—couch that sat against the far wall, ignoring the sting of pain that shot up my spine.

"Oh, hello, Bella!" Dr. Paul Allan exclaimed in a tone so cheerful I almost wanted to barf.

I stared at him a moment, disbelieving. How could someone be so happy? No, that's not even the right question—how could someone even act that happy? And why he still continued to be nice to me, I had no idea. "Hi."

Any girl's first perception of Dr. Allan would be the same (in my personal opinion, it had to be—there was no other way to describe him): hot. He was twenty-six, nicely muscled, and single. But, later on, just about all of his patients had to come to the same conclusion (really, they had to, seeing as I was probably the most sane of his patients): he was just too nice, and too happy. And after sitting with him for an hour every day each summer, I stopped noticing his attractive traits, like his high cheek bones and bright blue eyes and ink black hair . . .

See? I totally stopped.

I might have wings, but I'm still a girl.

"And how are we today?" he inquired seriously, leaning forward, as if my answer to his question would be the most interesting, remarkable thing he'd hear all his life.

I leaned forward too, not mocking him in the slightest. "Amazing," I stage whispered back.

Dr. Allan eyed his favorite patient, none other than me, suspiciously. "Hmm. Your aunt tells me you had quite the disturbing dream this past night." I raised an eyebrow (a trick I had down to pat after hours upon hours of practice in front of a mirror in the sixth grade) and stared at him. "Would you like to tell me about it?" he continued, when I didn't respond.

"Not really," I said, because I didn't. Disturbing dream? Where had she gotten that? I didn't want to think that Uncle Billy had actually lied to Aunt Jenna.

"And I hear your brother is in town as well. That must be exciting."

"Not really," I said again, because it wasn't. It was more of something that really pissed me off, rather than excited me.

"I think your uncle mentioned that he attends Stanford University?"

"Yeah."

"That's a very good school, Bella. Your parents must have been very proud."

Too bad they weren't alive long enough to find out, I thought silently, restraining from shouting at Dr. Allan. I felt bad for him, just a bit. He was clearly trying to help—but you can't give help to someone who doesn't want it.

I sat and watched the clock for above his desk for a while, contemplating the upcoming year at Brentwood Academy, my boarding school in Connecticut. This was something I often found myself doing, in meetings with Dr. Paul Allan: staring at his clock. It was also one of the many things on my nonexistent list of things I don't find very fun.

Anyways, after a painfully boring thirty-two minutes, Dr. Allan stood from his chair, which he then proceeded to drag to sit in front of the heinous couch. I raised an eyebrow at him. I was starting to feel like I was doing that a lot.

And then—that was all. He just sat there, watching me, uncomfortably close. After a few seconds, I just couldn't stand it. I've always been seriously freaked out whenever someone I'm not close with would come really close. And no, that's not some weird bird thing, (I don't think) since I'm not a bird. It's more of a I-don't-want-you-seeing-my-wings-and-sending-me-away-to-the-government kind of thing.

"Can you, like, back away?"

He didn't move. Not an inch.

"Seriously, Dr. Allan. Can you move?"

Same reaction.

By this point, I was getting really annoyed, as you can imagine. I couldn't stop wondering why my Aunt makes me see him again and again, when I could have been doing things like visiting old friends, or other normal summer activities . . . which I really couldn't do, anyway. I mean, I hadn't been in the pool since I was eight; I hadn't really done much of anything—accept school—since everything started.

I repeated my request to Dr. Allan, only this time I didn't hesitate to add a few colorful words. He still remained impassive.

"It makes you uncomfortable that I'm so close," he said finally. "Why?"

I looked at him, anger bubbling under my skin. "Why do you think?"

Dr. Allan stood up from his chair, and sat on the corner of his desk, the action reminding me of both of my brother's and uncle's actions earlier that morning. "You relaxed when I moved," he informed me, like it was something I didn't know. "Why?"

"Maybe because I don't like people getting that close?"

Dr. Allan's green eyed gaze remained on me, expression clear. A blank slate. "Why?"

"Why?" I asked, leaning backward on the couch. "What do you mean why?"

"Why does it bother you when I get so close? Why can't you talk to anyone about your parents? Why won't you discuss anything with me? Anything at all?"

I watched Dr. Allan from where I was perched on his dreadful couch, my sweatshirt-covered arms falling to my sides. "Because I can't," I told him. I dropped back down onto the couch heavily, my fingers automatically moving to sit in my mouth, where I attacked them furiously with my teeth.

"Why can't you, Bella?" Dr. Allan asked me. I didn't respond. "Can you tell me why?"

But this time, before I could even think about responding, which I probably wouldn't have, a knock came at the door. The receptionist, Laura, poked her head in the door.

"Hi, I'm, um, sorry, for, um, interrupting, Dr. Allan," she stammered, "But an Emmett Swan is here to see you? He says he's related to, um," She nodded to me, "Bella?"

My eyebrows pulled together. Why would Emmett be here?

Dr. Allan threw me a mildly confused glance before saying, "Send him in."

So she did.

And it turned out to be a very good thing that Dr. Allan had never personally met my brother, seeing as the person who walked through the door of his office most definitely was not him.

"Oh, Emmett," Dr. Allan exclaimed, in that same painfully happy tone. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you!"

Edward coughed to hide his laugh, his mess of bronze hair sticking up crazily. "It's a pleasure, to, erm, meet you, too, Dr . . ."

"Allan," Dr. Allan finished for him, grinning good naturedly. "Dr. Paul Allan."

"Oh, well," Edward said, the corners of his lips twitching. "I'm really sorry, but Bella actually needs to leave . . . our, erm, aunt said that she would call later to reschedule."

"Yes, of course!" Dr. Allan held the door open. "But, if you don't mind me asking, what is the reason for Miss Swan's sudden departure?"

"It turns out she has something she needs to do," Edward winked easily, before grabbing my hand, and pulling me up from where I still sat, in shock, slack-jawed, on the hideous couch.

"Bye, Dr. Allan," I called over my shoulder, almost in a trance.

But the moment we got outside, we were both laughing hysterically. Edward pulled me into a tight hug, and spun my around gleefully, although I knew there was no way he was as happy to see me as I was to see him. I ignored the way his fingers felt—which was not very great—when he pushed them up against the tendons in my wings, and hugged him back

"I thought you were going to be in California all summer!" I exclaimed, my fingers intertwining with his as they made their way to his car, an older jeep that he'd fixed up with his dad for the entire year before he got his license.

"We were," he told me, pulling me to his side and pressing his cheek to my hair in a way that nearly made me collapse, right then and there. "But I managed to convince my dad to let me drive back down to see you before you had to leave for school." We reached the car then, and Edward pulled the passenger door open for me. I hopped in, and he ran to the other side, getting in himself. The moment he got the car started, I was reaching for the radio dial. I switched to 96.9, shooting Edward a look.

He laughed easily. "Fine. I got it. No changing the station. You want your mix crap. I think we—"

And then his favorite Grateful Dead song came on, and I was interrupting him. "What was that you were saying, Edward? About my mix crap? I'm sure you can find time to listen to your classical music later."

Edward cleared his throat, the corners of his perfect lips twitching. "Nothing."

"Oh, really? Are you sure about that?" Edward just laughed, and grabbed my hand from where it sat near the radio dial. He squeezed it tightly.

"Mmm," he whispered, his gaze on the road softening. "I'm sure."

I laughed lightly, and, with my other hand, turned up the radio. I tried to ignore the way my heart sped up at his touch. "By the way," I started. "You suck at acting."

He just laughed. "Hey, I never said I was going to try out for the next musical or anything. It worked, though, didn't it? I mean, I got you out."

I smiled a small smile. "You did."

"So," Edward said. "What's it like to be back home?" he asked me, seeming genuinely curious—even though it was the same thing he asked every time I came back—watching me from the corner of his brilliantly green eyes. And, unlike with Dr. Allan, I actually wanted to answer.

"Miserable," I joked. It was easy to forget about everything when I was with Edward, who was nothing short of my best friend. "It's so hot!"

Edward let out a soft laugh. "I know what you mean. I got here—what? An hour ago?—and it's already killing me." Anyone else would have made a joke about my sweatshirt. But not Edward. He'd learned a while ago that making fun of my choice of clothing definitely wasn't the way to get on my nice list.

"So how was Dana Point?" I asked, as my small hand still remained lost in his.

"Awesome. My cousins and I—Mason and Dylan; you met them, remember?—went surfing every day. The water was freezing, though."

"Sounds way better than my summer," I concluded, shielding my eyes from the hot sunlight that was streaming through the windshield. I pushed my sleeves off of my hands, which I wiped on my jacket. At least I was wearing shorts. We were both quiet for a moment, that comfortable quiet that never seemed to leave the two of us.

"Emmett showed up this morning," I told Edward.

His eyebrows puckered, and I had the urge to reach over and smooth his forehead out, brush away those lines of worry and confusion. "Really?"

The fact that Edward found this weird, too, comforted me immensely. My aunt and uncle hadn't seemed too curious about their nephew's sudden reappearance from the rabbit hole.

"Yeah. Really early, too." I chewed on my lower lip. "He said something about Aunt Jenna telling him that I was going to school soon, or something, which I know is a total lie, because he _knows _when school starts."

Edward glanced over in my direction, his eyebrows now raised. "Weird."

"I thought so, too. But Jenna and Billy didn't seem to."

Edward's lips pulled up in the corners, forming the sort of crooked half smile that was all Edward, and nothing else—no one else. "I wouldn't worry about it, Bells," he assured me. "I'm sure it's not a big deal."

"Yeah, I guess." Do you think he feels guilty? I was dying to ask. Do you think he actually misses me? I watched the dry, Arizona scenery that flew past us, insides simmering just like every last blade of grass in that bright sun, doing what I did best.

Swallow hard.

Nod and smile.

I'm fine, thanks for asking.

_One foot in front of the other._

Even though I was reluctant to drop the subject, I did so anyway, knowing I could always talk to Edward about it later. Then I focused on the direction in which we were currently heading, and immediately perked up. "Are we . . . ?"

Edward grinned at me, and I squealed happily.

When Edward and I had been in eighth grade—my last year of school with him—we would go on these bike rides that seemed to last forever, and, sometimes, that's exactly what they did. A lot of the time, we'd find these little stores and restaurants (like Antique Alcove, or Dragonfly Vietnamese) and, somewhere along the way, one place—a place we were sure to never forget: Giordano's Cinema Club.

Both Edward and I had been movie fanatics since elementary school, dragging our parents to the movies almost every weekend, and, on special occasions, after school. The discovery of the small lunch and dinner serving Movie Theater was viewed as, well, just short of extraordinary. We went every chance we could before I left for school the following summer. It was our place—somewhere that hadn't been ruined for me after my parents' deaths, just over a year ago. Somewhere I hadn't been in months, yet couldn't picture more clearly. Somewhere I would never go with anyone else.

It was our place.

But it wasn't until halfway through the movie—and our lunch—when I remembered something, something I should have thought about long before: Emmett was picking my up from Dr. Allan's.

Crap.

I pushed my panic down, though, when my gaze fell upon our hands—mine and Edward's—intertwined in between the two of us on the dark table top, something that we'd been doing for years. Just because we had never been more than friends didn't mean I didn't want to be.

I glanced up at Edward's face, pale in the light coming from the screen, and—Oh, my god. He was looking at me. Look away, Bella! Look away! And when I did, my eyes immediately fell on my barely eaten burger, and then to Edward's all but gone one. There were only a few people in this particular theatre, and the electric energy between Edward and I was starting to become uncomfortable.

Was he still looking at me? Should I look back up at him? Should I just turn back to the screen, or maybe eat my burger?

I was getting beginning to get a headache.

After the movie was over, we headed outside, back to the car. "Hold on a sec," Edward told me, his green eyes soft as he studied my face before returning to his search in the center console. "I just need to check my . . . Shi—I mean, whoa."

"What?" I finished getting my buckle on, and turned to Edward. He was looking at his cell phone, dark eyebrows disappearing under his dark hair.

"I have so many messages." After a moment of confused silence, Edward looked up at me, his expression disbelieving. "Oh, god. Bella!" he groaned.

"What? What did I do?"

"Emmett," was all Edward said, before pressing a button on the phone and throwing it to me. He started up the car, and we flew from the parking lot. The phone started to ring in my ear.

Once.

Twice.

And then . . . "Edward! Do you—where the hell is my sister? What the f—"

"Emmett!" I cut in.

"Bella?" Emmett exclaimed.

"Yeah, it's me, and I'm fine," I told him, annoyed by the fact that he would freak out so much over my disappearing for all of two hours. I was sixteen! You'd think I would have more breathing space after the years, not less.

"For Christ's sake, Bella! What the hell were you thinking?" By this point, it was clear that his relief over finally locating me was short lived.

"Okay. So you know I'm alive. I'm hanging up now. Good bye, Emmett!" And, just like that, I hung up my brother, not really caring what would be waiting for me at home.

Edward watched me warily from the corner of his eye. "Where do you want to go?"

I sunk down low in the seat. "Anywhere but home," I told him, and he didn't seem too bothered to comply.

Just minutes later, we pulled up at the frozen yogurt place next to the mall, Desert Swirl. Edward hurried to hold the door open for me, but I just stormed into the small, brightly colored restaurant, and threw myself into one of the sparkly, neon booths. Edward shook his head good naturedly, once again reminding me why I loved him so much. My eyes followed him as he headed to get our frozen yogurt, disappearing around a neon green wall.

When Edward reappeared, moments later, it was with a large bowl filled with just about every flavor of frozen yogurt they had, and sat down next to me in the booth I had selected. Sliding over the bowl, Edward didn't seem too surprised when I immediately scooped up some of the yogurt, and stuck it in my mouth. I rubbed my nose, hoping that Edward, despite the fact he'd known me since grade school, couldn't tell that I was holding back tears.

"Hey," he said softly, eyes moving up to my gray eyes. I couldn't seem to look into his. "You want to go home?"

I sighed, but nodded, and followed Edward from the restaurant. Thankfully, he didn't open the door for me this time; I don't think I would be able to handle it if he was any nicer to me than he'd been before. I didn't want him to be nice to me. Not if that meant him treating me like I wasn't strong enough to handle anything on my own. I had survived through thousands of illegal experiments in an underground lab. I think that gave me the upper hand.

As soon as we pulled up at my house, I was throwing open the door of Edward's Jeep, tearing up the driveway, and running around back. I easily scaled the tree on the side of the house, not even turning to see if Edward hadn't pulled away from my house yet, or if Emmett, who was supposedly worried about me, had come outside. Hopping from the tree to the roof of the house was easy—by this point, I'd done it so many times, the action was all but effortless. My window was open, of course, and, after pulling it halfway up, I slipped into my room . . . only to be tackled to the floor by none other than my brother.

"Bella! You scared the hell out of me!"

"Me?" I screamed in an unattractively high pitched voice. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Waiting for you to come home!" he exclaimed, his tone hinting to an underlying 'duh!'

I rubbed my temples, leaning back against the wall next to the window from which I had just climbed through. "Well that's nice, and everything, but, if you don't mind, I'm going to go to"—I yawned, as if to prove my point—"sleep."

"Oh." Emmett watched me, with those permanently sad eyes, eyes that seemed even sadder then, in that moment. "Okay."

Ignoring my brother, I pulled the blinds on all five of my windows shut tight and slipped off my pants, grabbing a pair of boxers from where they sat on my dresser, before climbing into my bed.

"So, I think I'm going to stay home," Emmett said, from where he sat in my dark room. "In Arizona, I mean. Until you go back to school."

"What about your summer classes?" I asked quietly.

"I'll . . . I'll figure it out. Don't worry about it. Besides," he said, "doesn't school start next week for you? I'll be out of here in no time."

My brother and I stared at one another a moment, his eyes starting at my tear-stained cheeks and making their way to my hands, which were clenched around parts of the comforter of my bed. His expression was one of worry and concern, but his sadness—that same aching depression that was eating away at me-was clearly the stronger of his emotions, even if it wasn't the first you would see.

The pained questions were there in his eyes, slicing through the air with his betrayal and self-blame. But there was still that one question, sitting there between the two of us, the one neither of us had yet to ask.

Why did this happen to us?

It grew bigger and bigger until it was almost suffocating me, holding me back against my pillows, and pushing down on my chest. It took me a second to realize what was happening, that I wasn't being suffocated by some question, something so simple, so small, turning into something big—no, something huge—that was prepared to step on us all.

Of course, it took Emmett about half a second to figure it out, and by the time I had realized what was going on, he was shoving my rarely-used inhaler in my face, and forcing it into my mouth.

Four puffs.

Come on.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

I slowly pushed the inhaler further from my mouth, and tried not to notice the intensity of Emmett's gaze, how he looked at me like I would break down at any moment. Nala pushed her way through the crack of the partially opened door and into my room, her big yellow eyes watching us as she jumped to perch on the corner of my desk.

"I'm fine," I wheezed out finally. Emmett looked skeptical, but sat back.

He looked like he wanted to say something in response, opening his mouth the way he did, but he didn't. Instead, he nudged me further to one side of the bed, and climbed in next to me. I didn't care that he was wearing clothes or that, in that moment, I wasn't really tired—I just wanted him to leave me alone. Under the blanket, he hooked his fingers around mine, and tucked his other arm under his head. Nala jumped from the desk and launched herself onto the end of my bed, sliding in between the lumps of mine and Emmett's legs under the sheets, atop the blankets.

It was dark in the room, and really quiet, too. A quick glance at the clock told me it was just after four in the afternoon, and a long look at my brother told me exactly how exhausted he was. And, as if the purple smears under his eyes weren't enough to prove that to me, he went ahead and yawned quietly, his eyes fluttering shut. I knew he was awake, though, by the way he kept on squeezing my fingers every few minutes, and by the quirk of his lips, the way that they were pulled down into a frown.

I could feel my own eyelids growing heavy with sleep, but I couldn't shake the image of my parents from my mind, or of the way Emmett was crying—sobbing—at their funeral, and how I would walk in on him, sometimes, in the kitchen, or Dad's library, or maybe Mom and Dad's room (which still remained unoccupied, untouched, even after two years), just crying, quietly. Alone.

Emmett shifted, and the bed creaked under our weight. It was a loud sound in my eerily silent room, one that sent my eyes flying wide open. And I intended to keep them so, until the small amount of light streaming through the medium sized, curtained windows that adorned much of my bedroom walls would disappear, when I would know it was night. Emmett squeezed my hand again, although he was clearly oblivious to my inner turmoil, judging by the way his breathing was getting heavier, his grip getting loser.

I pulled my left hand from under the blanket, and reached forward until my fingers found Nala's fur. She meowed softly, and I tucked my hand under her stomach, pulling her to my side. She curled up next to me, on my pillow, purring lightly. The sound was somewhat reassuring in the completely un-reassuring silence that seemed to envelope the entire house.

Emmett started to snore lightly next to me, in a way that reminded me of before he'd left for college, before I'd been accepted to Brentwood with a full academic scholarship, and before our parents died, when we were younger and I'd fall asleep to the sound of his soft snores in my ears more often than not. This time, it was my fingers that squeezed Emmett's as he fell deeper into oblivion, while I was falling further out.

I managed to stay awake for two hours after that, but sometime after five I was _this_ far from passing out. I needed caffeine. And fast.

I slipped my fingers from Emmett's, and scooted out from between him and Nala. Making my way down the attic stairs, I made sure to keep clear of the ones that would always creak. After managing to make a cup of instant coffee in the kitchen, I trudged back up the stairs to my room, exhaustion dripping from every bone in my body. And I had a feeling the coffee wouldn't do much to stop it.

Emmett was still asleep when I pulled the door open, but little Nala's eyes were wide open, staring at me with accusations. I set the useless cup of coffee down on my desk before making my way over to my warm bed. My body was screaming for me to lie back down and shut my eyes, while my mind, every inch of my mind, was trying desperately to hold away images of Renee and Charles Swan, protesting any thoughts of sleep. But I crawled back into bed, promising myself that, even if I was in bed, I wasn't necessarily going to bed. My fingers found their way into Nala's soft fur, and she purred lightly, the sound caressing my ears. I still held my eyes open, though, the taste of the bitter, black coffee still lingering on my tongue.

"Go," Emmett mumbled drowsily, "to sleep."

I shot up in bed, my heart pounding heavily. Emmett peeled an eyelid back, staring at me with sleep glazed eyes. I forced myself to relax, and lied back down. Emmett's fingers wrapped around my wrist, and I could feel my pulse thudding (ba-dum, ba-dum) against his index finger. He must have felt it, too, because he entwined his fingers into mine and whispered, "Calm down." Nala meowed once before sneezing in my ear and scooting further into the pillow. Her tail slapped against my arm in a way I felt was meant to be reassuring.

I rolled over, towards Emmett, and he wrinkled his nose, eyes still shut. "Coffee?" He snorted. "That's what you went downstairs for?"

"You were awake?" I cried, surprise coloring my tone.

Emmett snorted again. "Like I was going to let you get away with anything."

"Well," I said.

Emmett frowned, eyes still shut. He exhaled heavily through his nose, before pulling me closer to his side. "Go," he said again, "to sleep."

"I can't."

"Yeah, well, you better," he mumbled back tiredly.

His hand tightened around mine for a moment, his breath light on my sweaty neck. My eyes attempted to slip shut, but I put all of my focus into keeping them open, into holding the horrifying images away. The fact that I hadn't actually been in the car seemed to make it worse, since neither of us knew what really happened on that cold rainy day, while Emmett was tens of miles away, and I was in class at Brentwood Academy. Sitting up, I pulled my hand from Emmett's. He watched me through his left eye, squinting in the dark room. "Bella," he started, in a warning tone. "You need to actually be able to function."

I pulled my legs up to my chest, and rested my elbows on my knees. I could feel my feathers twisting up under the thick fabric of my sweatshirt—Mom had taught me how to sew more layers of fabric in along the back of my shirts and jackets, making it less likely that someone would A) feel my wings or B) hurt them. I think we were more worried about the latter, though.

"Really?" I murmured. "Do I have to? Maybe I should just—disappear. Honestly, things would be so much easier."

Emmett's silence seemed even more painful than it would have been if he'd yelled at me. He sat up too, his bare shoulder brushing my clothed one. "And school starts up soon," he whispered, rubbing Nala in between the ears. Her purrs vibrated through my arm. "Don't you have to go early, for that placement thing?"

"Yeah, well. That doesn't exactly make me want to be able to function, Emmett," I said dryly.

He sighed. "I'm not gonna lie to you, Bella," he said. "College is way better." I could hear myself laughing, even though I know we both knew that wasn't what I'd meant. Not at all.

"Mmm," I breathed, letting my eyelids droop. "Is there some girl you're not telling me about?"

"Nah," he whispered, shifting slightly.

"Yeah?"

And so we whispered, back and forth, until the little bit of sun peeking out from under my blinds started to fade, and the air coming from my half-opened window grew colder.

_X-X-X _

The next morning, I find Uncle Michael sitting on my desk again, cradling a cup of coffee, and I'm the only occupant of my bed. The clock on my night stand told me it was a little after ten. I slid my glasses on, looking over at my uncle.

"Hey, Bells," he said.

I saluted him, sitting up a little. "What's up?" He looks nervous. He sets the coffee down on my desk, and rubs his hands together. "Really. You're making me nervous. What's going on?"

"Okay. You're aunt's going to kill me," he says, coming to sit down at the end of my bed.

"_What_ is going on? Spit it out." I sit up even farther, watching him warily.

"Well. The thing is, Bells . . . we talked to Dr. Allan—"

"Okay. So you always talk to Dr. Allan. What's your point?" I bite my lip.

"We talked to Dr. Allan," he repeats, giving me a look, "this morning. And he thinks . . . that you shouldn't be going away to school."

"_What?_" I stare at him, open mouthed. "That's a joke, right? You're kidding?"

"No, honey. I'm sorry. I wish I was. We were talking, and he was saying how being away from here is letting you . . . escape your issues. And that the only way you'll get better is if you stay here, and come to terms with . . ." He looks away.

Tears are welling in my eyes. "No! You can't _do _that to me. That's not _fair. _I _need _to be away from here. I _can't _deal with it. I can't _cope._"

Uncle Michael puts his hand on my knee, squeezing hard. "I know, honey. I know. I miss them too. I do. I understand what you're feeling right now, I do." I just bite my lip and shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. "I just thought you should hear it from me, not your aunt. I love you. I'll come back and check on you in a little bit, okay?"

The mattress moves when his weight leaves it, and I listen as he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Wow, my life sucks.

* * *

><p><strong>Poor Bella. It's okay, though. She has Edward.<strong>

**DONT FORGET TO REVIEW FOR THE SNEAK PREVIEW! (: **


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